This episode contains violence, strong language, and themes that may be disturbing to some readers. Viewer discretion is advised.
SLAP!
The slap landed with brutal force—merciless and sharp.
The crack of skin against skin shattered the silence, echoing through the hollow room.
Even as a sudden gust of wind tore through the tall windows, whipping the sheer curtains into a frenzy and chilling the air, the sound didn't fade.
Instead, the wind seemed to carry it, dragging the echo past the doorway and down the long, shadowed corridor, haunting every empty room it touched.
"JUST WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU, VANDERICK?!"
"IS YOUR BRAIN TRULY THAT ROTTEN? HOW DARE YOU LET THAT FILTH LEAVE YOUR LIPS—DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW MUCH YOUR DAMN NONSENSE HURT CATHERINE?!"
Emma's face was flushed a deep, violent crimson—not the soft pink of embarrassment or the dull red of exhaustion, but a searing scarlet that burned like embers fanned by a gale.
She forced the words through her parched throat, her voice coming out harsh, hoarse, and cracking under the weight of her rage.
"You know exactly who she is, don't you?!"
"She is the only daughter and the sole heiress to the Hynder Group—the titan of the entertainment industry in Jakarta, Vanderick!"
"Why can't you show her even a shred of respect? Why can't you act like a gentleman welcoming a princess, for once?!"
"Instead, why must you behave like a monster fresh out of its cage, mauling everyone with your words—including the filth you spat that pierced Catherine's heart?!"
Vanderick remained silent.
There was no retort. No defense.
His face remained turned to the side, frozen in the direction of the impact he had just endured. The sting of the palm still seared his skin—a burning heat that didn't just sit on his cheek, but radiated outward to his ear and his temple.
A faint, almost invisible wince twitched at the corner of his lips. Only the slight tremor beneath his eye betrayed the raw agony of the blow. Against his pale skin, the crimson mark began to bloom—five distinct, jagged lines darkening until the unmistakable shape of a handprint was etched into his flesh.
At the corner of his mouth, blood began to seep. It started as a single bead, clinging to his split lip, before finally yielding to gravity.
One drop. Then two. They struck the floor, blooming into small, scarlet stains against the pale surface of the marble tiles.
But that expression lasted only a fleeting second.
Something shifted in Vanderick's features. His rigid jawline slowly relaxed, and the corner of his bloodied lip twitched upward. Before Emma could even begin to decipher the change, a low, dry chuckle escaped him.
It wasn't loud, nor was it long, but somehow it felt far more unsettling than any scream. It was the laugh of someone finding amusement in the wreckage—a condescending sound that treated the entire confrontation like a cheap, pathetic play.
"Tell me, old woman…"
"Who exactly do you think you are? Do you truly believe you have the right to order me around? To demand I bow at your feet and offer up my body as your puppet, hm?"
"Do you honestly think you hold any power in this house?"
"Don't forget, you're nothing more than my father's accidental whore. That doesn't give you the right to bark orders or play the role of the King's beloved Queen. My father might have accepted your body... but he never accepted your existence."
Emma's hands snapped into fists at her sides, clenching so hard her knuckles turned a ghostly white. The veins on the backs of her hands strained under the skin as a low, trembling hiss escaped her lips—a sound like steam trapped inside a boiling pot, desperate to burst through.
She was on the verge of lunging forward.
Her body leaned in, her heels lifting slightly off the floor as her arm began to swing—ready to repeat the blow, perhaps with even more violence this time, driven by a raw intent to wound.
But before her palm could fully rise again, a touch stopped her cold.
It was Dan.
Her son, who had been witnessing the nightmare unfold in silence, caught Emma's arm. He held her back, his eyes searching hers with a desperate, silent plea.
"Mother, that's enough."
"Even if you slap him again or beat him black and blue, Vanderick won't listen. We should go back to our rooms and rest."
"You have many meetings tomorrow, don't you? I don't want you wasting your precious rest just to deal with someone like him."
Dan kept his voice low, his words barely more than a whisper intended only for his mother's ears. He didn't want him to hear. Not now. Not while Emma's fury was still a volatile ember, ready to ignite at the slightest spark.
But fate, it seemed, was never on their side.
A sudden, violent gust of wind slammed against the house, forcing its way through the gap in the window. This time, the blast was much stronger, catching the frame and throwing the window wide open with a sharp, piercing screech of wood against wood.
Dan, who had felt safe in the sanctuary of his whisper, suddenly realized the wind had betrayed him. The draft had caught his words, carrying them across the room and making his softest murmur audible—vivid and clear—straight to Vanderick's ears.
Vanderick turned his head slowly, his gaze lingering on Dan for a heartbeat before finally settling on Emma.
"Meetings?"
"Are you still playing house? Still pretending to be the lady of the manor while burying yourself in 'Director' duties?"
"Is that all you are? So shallow that you think a polished surface can hide the rot within?"
This time, the veins pulsing with suppressed rage weren't on Emma's temples or neck—they were on Dan's.
His gaze was razor-sharp, far too mature for his years, radiating an aura that was heavy, tense, and thick with loathing. He rejected Vanderick's very existence. To him, that face was a stain—something to be shunned, something that should never have appeared before him in the first place.
"Watch your mouth, Vanderick!"
"A piece of filth like you has no right to speak as if everything that happened was my mother's fault!"
"Blame your own father. Blame his greed—his utter inability to distinguish between what he should do and what he should never touch!"
"Do you honestly think my mother was the one who walked into your father's cage?! Do you think she just gave up when she was forced into something she loathed, simply because your father wanted her?!"
"Do you think she felt any joy from the 'gifts' your father threw at her as an apology for that night? For that accident?!"
"NOT. A. SINGLE. BIT!"
Dan's breath hitched, coming in ragged, shallow gasps. His lungs seemed to buckle under the weight of the fury incinerating him from the inside out. But he didn't care. There was no pause to calm down, no room to retreat, and no time to take a breath.
"IF I HAD A CHOICE, I WOULD NEVER HAVE CHOSEN A MAN LIKE YOUR FATHER TO BE MINE! AND THIS BLOOD—HIS BLOOD RUNNING THROUGH MY VEINS… I NEVER WANTED A SINGLE DROP OF IT!"
"IT MAKES ME SICK! I FEEL LIKE VOMITING EVERY TIME I REALIZE THAT I AM BOUND TO YOU—THAT I HAVE TO LIVE AMONG BRUTAL, FILTHY, CRUEL, AND SADISTIC HUMANS LIKE THE BOTH OF YOU!"
Vanderick remained utterly unshaken by Dan's verbal assault.
Not a single crack appeared on his face; not a single sign of discomfort flickered in his eyes, even as those raw, unfiltered words tore from Dan's lips—hoarse, trembling, and heavy with rage.
Instead, he simply wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. It was a slow, lazy movement, as if the blood dripping from his lip were nothing more than an insignificant stain. His gaze remained flat and undisturbed, like the eyes of a predator watching its prey—calm, focused, and lethal.
After several seconds that felt like an eternity in hell, Vanderick drew himself up to his full height. He casually slid both hands into his pockets—a gesture that screamed one thing: he wasn't afraid, he wasn't bothered, and he didn't feel threatened in the slightest.
"Do all poor, lowly people like you always spit out the same tired lines?"
"Is it a common habit among your kind? Blaming those with money and power, hiding behind the excuse that you are merely 'accidental victims' caught in the traps of the powerful?"
"Isn't that simply the consequence of being beneath us? Why do you act as if you're the ones who deserve more pity?"
Vanderick's gaze shifted, landing on Emma. Her breathing was still erratic, her chest heaving uncontrollably, though the pace had slowed.
He crossed his arms over his chest and tilted his chin up—his face pale, bloodless, and void of any emotion. Completely flat.
"You should be grateful that my father chose to marry you—to make you his second wife—and gave you the chance to give birth to that bastard of yours."
"In fact, Father was heartless enough to let my mother surrender herself to the Angel of Death, all because she found out her husband had returned home with his 'accidental' wife and a newborn baby still flushed pink."
Vanderick gave a sharp, begrudging shrug—a clear sign he couldn't care less about the reaction his words would provoke. He continued coldly:
"I only ever bowed to my mother's words. And now that she is gone, I will never bow to anyone again. Even if you carry my father's name, the only person who could command me was her. No one else can ever take her place."
"If you want to feel like you've won, why don't you just marry off your bastard son to that fragile, hideous girl from earlier? Aren't they a perfect match? One is a bastard, and the other is an eyesore."
"Besides, I have no interest in an ugly girl, no matter how rich or high-born she is. Marrying her would be no different than marrying a beggar, and I certainly have no intention of giving my last na—"
THUD!
The punch collided with Vanderick's face with devastating force.
His body jerked back, losing all balance as he was sent flying. His back slammed into the edge of the table with a sickening thud, adding to the wreckage in the room.
In a desperate reflex, his hand clawed at the tablecloth, dragging it down with him as he fell.
Vanderick hit the floor hard, and a split second later, a massive floral vase toppled over, crashing directly onto his chest. The porcelain shattered into a thousand jagged pieces. Water surged out, drenching his shirt, while shards of glass scattered across his body, glinting with a lethal shimmer in the dim light.
"YOU DEVIL-TONGUED BASTARD!"
"GO TO HELL RIGHT NOW!"
"ROT THERE WITH YOUR FATHER AND MOTHER! DON'T YOU EVER COME BACK!"
"LIVE IN THE DEPTHS OF HELL TO ATONE FOR YOUR SINS, YOU UNGRATEFUL MONSTER!"
"IF YOU'RE REALLY A MAN, FACE ME! STOP USING THAT FILTHY MOUTH OF YOURS TO DEGRADE MY MOTHER! YOU FOOL! YOU DISGUSTING, ROTTEN PIECE OF SHIT! DAMN YOU TO HELL!"
Dan was about to lunge again.
He wanted to strike once more—to land another blow, to roar another threat, or perhaps to let out a raw, deafening scream. Anything to finally shatter Vanderick's composure, as the man remained seated on the floor, looking utterly wrecked.
But then, everything moved too fast.
Emma, who had been frozen in shock—her eyes wide as she witnessed Dan's explosive movement and the sight of Vanderick being sent flying by the impact—suddenly snapped back to her senses. Gasping, she lunged forward, catching Dan's arm and forcing his momentum to a halt.
"Enough… that's enough! Stop it, Dan!"
"You were the one who told me to stop! So why are you the one acting like this now?!"
Unfortunately, Dan was beyond the reach of Emma's voice.
In a swift, violent motion, he threw off Emma's hand. The force of the shove was enough to send his mother stumbling back several steps, her balance shattered.
But Dan didn't stop. He pressed forward with heavy, unwavering strides, radiating a searing aura of heat that seemed to vibrate from his very skin.
Emma, barely having regained her footing, scrambled after him. She lunged, desperately catching his arm once more before he could reach Vanderick.
"Do you want to be just like him, huh?!"
"Are you going to ignore your own mother, too?!"
Dan slowly turned his head toward Emma, as if being jolted awake from a world of his own—a boundless ocean of emotion that had nearly drowned his every shred of sanity.
"But he started it, Mother!"
"Weren't you the one suffering under the weight of his words? Am I… as your son, supposed to just stand here while you are treated like that? By someone who thinks he's superior to every other human being? A son who does nothing… is a son who fails to protect his own mother!"
"I am a man… and so is he. You don't need to soil your hands to teach him a lesson. Let me do it!"
Emma shook her head violently, asserting one thing: a refusal that was non-negotiable.
Her grip on Dan's arm tightened, as if to ensure that her son's entire world was centered only on her. Emma's gaze shifted—sharp, yet lingering with a profound softness—a combination only a mother who understood her child better than anyone could possess.
She searched Dan's face, which was now completely flushed. His skin was red, not just from the searing heat of his body, but from the explosion of emotions flooding his veins.
Seeing his ragged breaths and his uncontrollably trembling lips, Emma knew that one wrong move, one step too far, could become a dangerous point of no return. And she would not let that happen.
"This is enough, Dan. Don't go any further… control yourself. Do you understand?"
"Let this matter… end here. After all, what Vanderick said… is the truth."
"If your father had abandoned me back then, you wouldn't have even grown to be the man you are today. I had nothing. Perhaps you would have ended up like any other person in poverty, living a life of limitation, raised in nothing but misery."
"So, even though this luxury wasn't born from my own hands, I am still indebted to your father. And in exchange… I must accept all the consequences."
Hearing the sudden softening of his mother's voice, Dan froze.
Her face looked withered, her eyes gazing at him with a weary, hollow look—like someone trapped between the urge to flee and the inability to move, choosing instead to simply remain and endure.
Something inside Dan collapsed instantly.
It wasn't just her expression or her gaze; it was the words spilling from her lips. Those words sounded like a confession—a surrender to the situation, a submission to the crushing pressure, an act of bowing down.
Dan's body reacted instinctively.
The surge of emotion he had been holding back—the rushing of his blood, the tension in every nerve and muscle—ignited into a feeling he could no longer contain. His fists clenched once more, his eyes trembling with a refusal to accept his mother's defeat.
"What do you mean by that, Mother…?"
"Why would you say such a thing?!"
"So… now you're choosing to defend this piece of trash over me? Over your own son?!"
"If the consequence is losing this wealth… then so be it! I can work for a better company than the one run by this bastard! I can make enough money to fill your bank accounts with billions! I can give you a peaceful life… without you ever having to worry about money again!"
"I can do it, Mother! I'm a man now! I can do anything—if it means making you happy and pulling you away from the clutches of this monster!"
"But if the price is letting him brand you as 'lowly' with that arrogant mouth of his… I won't accept it! He talks as if we're the worst kind of people… when he is just as rotten as his father and every other power-hungry person out there!"
Consumed by the absolute peak of resentment, fury, and loathing, Dan thrashed against Emma's grip.
As she pulled him away, trying to drag him out of the room, he continued to struggle, desperate to reach Vanderick again—driven by a raw, primal urge to finish what he started, to beat the man until his rage was spent.
But Emma's grip was ironclad. Fueled by a mother's desperation, she hauled him toward the exit. Left with no choice, Dan was forced to follow his mother's lead.
But just before they vanished behind the door, he snapped his head back, his eyes burning as they locked onto Vanderick—who was still slumped against the table leg.
"DAMN YOU!"
"WATCH YOUR BACK! I'LL KILL YOU, YOU FILTHY PSYCHOPATH!!"
Dan's voice continued to echo loudly in Vanderick's ears, even after the door finally slammed shut with a heavy, definitive thud. The room, which only moments ago had been a battlefield of explosive emotions, was now plunged into a deafening silence, leaving him utterly alone.
With a slow, deliberate movement, he ran a hand through his damp hair, brushing away the strands that partially veiled his eyes. Then, his voice rasped out:
"Those… noisy, low-class peasants. So loud!"
"If it weren't for Father's will, demanding they stay in this house… I would have kicked them out to the streets long ago!"
"Damn it all…"
He slowly raised his hand, his long fingers gripping the edge of the table for support, his body swaying slightly as he struggled to pull himself upright. As he moved, something slipped from his trouser pocket. A small object slid out, gliding through the air for a brief second before landing at his feet with a soft clink.
Vanderick stared at it, his eyes narrowing instantly. His brow furrowed as he tried to discern what had just fallen. Finally, he leaned down slowly—each movement stiff and pained—and picked it up. It was a long, stiff strip of paper, shimmering with a silver metallic finish.
CIRCLE-FIVE : THE FIRST LOOP : SPECIAL SHOWCASE
DATE: Saturday, Feb 28, 2XXX | 20:00 WIB
VENUE: THE DIAMOND HALL - Jakarta
[ SEATING INFORMATION ]
CATEGORY: ROYAL CIRCLE (VVIP SEATED)
SECTION: CENTER - FRONT
ROW: A
SEAT: 05
[ BARCODE ]
TRANSACTION ID: C5-VIP-990005
NON-TRANSFERABLE | ID REQUIRED